My Half-Century.

<reading time 10-20 minutes>


F-i-f-t-y!

One day this summer I turned 50. 

This blogpost is about my half-century. 
For a few months now, I had been feeling a need to explain my ground. So this post, with (pictures!) is, -all-about-me.

***** 

I. 

I grew up in south India in a corner of a city. In a middle-class home, with my siblings, school, community, my mother's songs, books from libraries and books from my father's collection. 

At 22 I came to New York City. I had a fellowship for a Masters in Chemical Engineering. My parents who are from a conservative background let me fly from our family nest on my own. I came to a new place, to a new culture. I lived and learned. Goodness in others helped me in more ways than I can fathom.

Changed schools for a PhD program. A small, memorable wedding in India with S in summer of '92. And I was back to university in Pennsylvania, to grad school research. 

In the same time, we traveled on some weekends, S and I, to see new places and meet new experiences (we lived long distance).

After a year in the mid-west we made a home in the sunny Bay Area in 1997.

Where I worked for some years in the areas of research, development and production of semiconductor processing.

Then, baby. I took time off from my career.

                 






      Baby became toddler. 

II.

Autism.

Autism entered our house without knocking and didn't leave even though I chased after it. And over the years, became family. 

At 40, I was very involved in our son M's coping with autism. He was 5-1/2 years old. I was so involved, I remember saying to myself on my 40th birthday, that my life as I had known was over. I assigned myself to a life of quiet service, of helping and learning. 

A year later I started homeschooling for many reasons1. My instinct was- he sees the world differently, so his learning is different? 

Another year later something unusual happened. I've not spoken to anyone about this because it is difficult to describe. It is coming directly to the blog because I believe I can find the ~right way here. 

***** 

It was late summer or early fall 2010. On one afternoon I found myself at a loss, more than usual.

Here I was, all that I was, how I shaped myself, was around knowledge and experiences. While M, sweet and vibrant, whom I loved more than myself, -then- could speak some words, didn't like to write and stopped reading. He heard differently. His senses processed experiences differently and so he responded differently. 

Medicine at best had mediocre answers. Therapies weren't working for him. This reality ate my insides. It's hunger was high that day.

How did the boy who LOVED to be read to, book after book, disappear? I was holding the void, waiting for him. 

How am I to live? What am I supposed to do? The life that he can't seem to have, how can I have it?

Instinctively, I left aside without prejudice all that I had built up. And subconsciously separated myself from how I had shaped myself.

There was nothing to hold on to. I didn't even know- how to breathe. Not literally, it was as if, -all I was- ..it was as if, -my entire sense of self- had evaporated into the hot day like the thinned air rising from the scorching backyard ground.

And then, when in my afternoon routine of checking the side gate and returning, when___ there was shift in my perspective. The shift was instantaneous. It was as if -a haze cleared up. After standing for a while under the shade of the Persimmon tree in this clarity, I walked away from it to check on M on the other side who was on his disc swing on a Yucca tree branch.

In this new perspective, it didn't matter. It DIDN'T MATTER at all that M was different!

That it didn't matter was insignificant, it was only a small inference from the main of the perspective. I went back to my life with my small family & house, feeling light like a drop on a leaf.

Of course I drift away and get caught up in the flow of heavy or light happenings but always go back as close to and align myself to this perspective as much as I can manage. It is my- one true thing. 

It's like this- imagine you are looking at one of those 3D pictures that were popular a decade or two ago- where you can see one image but if you shift your focus this way and that, you'll see another image. At a point if you can manage, you'll see both. Then you can't unsee one unless you screw up. Even if you lose one, you won't forget and will keep looking for it to make the picture complete again. The new perspective was something like that. 
Until then, I had been with one view. Then unexpectedly, from where my life had taken me and because of M, I was seeing another view, that was underlying this view. This new, second view, or a field as I can best describe it, actually feels the main, the more you feel it. 

It is a totally different feel. 

Then after a year or so later, I recognized that what I've called field, is what has been known since the ages, as --- ~Oneness! 

Oneness is unmistakable.

If someone asks- So what do you have from that?

I'll have this to say- What I have, is, Nothingness.

That is the paradox of Oneness. 

***** 

Over years, I've examined this field from many angles. A part of which is this blog itself. 

It is quite difficult to try and mesh together the 2 distinct views- the one in which we live, and one where there are no differences in we. In one, mountains are mountains and in the boundary between the views, mountains can be pebbles. In one, puddles are puddles, and in the boundary, puddles can be oceans. In one, flowers are flowers. In the same one, there is autism. 

(I hope you noticed that I haven't attempted to describe the actual field- Oneness- itself here. Because it is not for words, intellect or art. Because then the definition will be within wordsese, intellectese and artese.

Also because enough has been said and is being said by many good people about Oneness and such experiences, I have nothing to add. 

Oh, except for my new blog2, where I try to describe how the ancient way of India- of Advaita (not-two)- defines this field. (And how many religions of the world may see the same field differently).

The effort is to explain from my angle which came about as I began to understand. 

While of course, ...whatever is, will always be).

III. 

We continue to ride with the thin and thick of autism. M is growing up through it. He turned 16 in October. We found a way to make schooling work and he is in 10th grade.

In the last few years, something new came about. 

Tentatively, I came up with a model for teaching/learning with a person with autism!

What is the model? Simply, it is to rely on an autism person's strength- generally viewed by mainstream only as a deficit, for learning & living. The strength is what I view as a long-range-intelligence. Relying on it actually makes it possible for a person to manage aspects of the disability with some of their abilities. 

It all started inadvertently, and in retrospect, with a mathematical puzzle when M was 11 or 12. 

It's called the Tower of Hanoi. Solving the puzzle requires some skills - all these are generally considered out-of-scope for M's sub-type of autism. I presented it to him in a certain way and with continued opportunity, he figured it out. 

How? How did it work?

The move from 4 to 5 blocks puzzle was difficult. We tried it on and off over a couple of years in a laid-back way. He would get it sometimes and sometimes not. Then I began noticing a pattern in the instances when the moves were smoother. We stuck to the pattern and viola!

Fast forward to later (and after 6, 7 block Tower of Hanoi puzzles using the same fast(er)-track way, along with observations from other dissimilar puzzles, games, tasks, academics, life and other children and adults over the years, there's this model. There's a method to draw on it. 

The method relies on a person's long-range-intelligence, and offers just-right support while operating in a field of unforced neutrality within our own general field of living&learning, so the person can choose to safely engage on his/her own terms3.

Last year, using this method we tried learning classical music on a keyboard. I picked a little complex song to start with (based on my model). It worked!

It worked! In music, M has joy. Every tune we begin starts off with some effort and as we keep practicing, there comes an inflection point when his ability overrides his disability and he becomes engrossed in the playing, neither looking at the notes nor the keyboard while his fingers are flying. It fills me with wonder and happiness every time. 

***** 

This field-in-a-field method, I think, hope, and that am working with, is about paving a way for M to be all of himself, with his worldview, alongside others as much as he can and wants. 

I believe the new perspective helped set a tone for our homeschooling, and later, helped with going along the path taken. The beauty of the model is that it is easy, and is respectful of student and teacher to the point we may wonder who is who4.

All this is giving me a way to flow more lightly with all life happenings- which is why I was able to write up this blogpost. 

That's my half-century at the crease. I'm happy to be 50. Thank you for reading. 

~~~~~

Notes. 

1. I wrote about this part of the journey in a previous blogpost. 

2. This new blog is of the two views- I and not-I, and a storyline culminating in one view, hence, the elegant A-dvaita (not-Two).

3. The model is applicable to a wide context. I hope to explain this in detail, elsewhere in future.

4. While easy, applying the model to specific or general skills needs consistent and patient effort. However, we are not on a mission. We'll take it gently, and we're actually quite content with what we have with music.

~~~~~

I couldn't hear a word

Reading time: 2 minutes

One of the two men started it. The younger one. He started telling something and became very animated. Waving his hands, stomping the red earth. By the worn-out van loaded with household stuff and with a hammock in a small side-grove. His entire body became involved in the telling. 

His eyes got bigger. His gestures contracted while he anticipated a response, a reaching out from the other. I stood in the parking lot watching them from about a hundred yards away. We were at a tourist spot famous for watching surfers in Maui. 

Both men were shirtless. Sea-wind seared faces. Lean, muscular bodies. With hungry ruggedness of living solely by the shore. 

The older man, in a red sarong, started listening while walking towards his friend. He slowly got the drift, gave out a guffaw. His body caught the wild story. Wide grins and questions in eyes. Ah, the enjoyment. They kept talking, turning towards each other in circles to hold the tension and vibe. I only followed their body language. I couldn't hear a word. 

We walked up a cliff to a spot to watch the wide ocean. The surfers were magnificent. They paddled in, waited, caught a wave and rode it back with skill. Torso and limbs in perfect coordination. Aligned minds. Majestic. Ah, the thrill. Many came to watch, like us. We dotted the cliffs on the shore. In mid-ocean a couple of surfers casually chatted with each other while waiting for a wave. Bobbing up and down, hanging to their boards. They were far away. I couldn't hear a word. 

Something bothered me. I couldn't figure it out. The something filled me with sadness. Shall we go? I asked my son, 11 then, who had wandered into a grove. Yes, he said, running back. 

It came to me two months later. What had bothered me. 

Their bodies followed their minds. The beach dwellers and the surfers. When erratic or disciplined. In whatever their minds indulged in. A wave or a wild story. Reliably. Dutifully. Not for my son. His body does not easily follow his mind. Even when he wants it to. Autism is a betrayal between mind and body. Like, on the vacation, he wasn't able to sleep at night. No matter how much he tried and wanted to.

How do I know? That his body does not follow his mind? I know because they talk to each other. They keep trying and trying and trying. I can hear every word. 

As his mom, what business do I have in enjoying the coordination of another's mind and body? What about him? Is such coordination the means and end to everything? Am I betraying him by watching? 
Nope, it came to me four years later. There's the body, there's the mind and there's the heart. The heart doesn't use words. It is never not coordinated in feeling. I needed to learn to steer into its band of slowness. 

When I'm there, I can hear the beautiful silence that is behind words. I don't need to hear every word. 

*******

Note: Thanks a local volunteer organization my son, M, went surfing. He was astounded at the experience and became very, very quiet for a few hours. 

Crater Lake

In August of 1994, we went to see the spectacular Crater Lake in Oregon. The trip became memorable for another unexpected, spectacular reason…

I finished up my lab work on a Friday evening, drove to our small Pennsylvania town airport (4 doors for gates in a big room) and flew to O’Hare. Where S joined me from his work and we took a flight to Portland. All through employee standby travel. For 3, 4 years this was almost a routine on some weekends for us, with different destinations.

We reached Crater Lake late on the next day. First we set up camp - it was our first camping trip in the great American outdoors! The next day we went to the lake. The bluest of blue, clearest of clear, caldera lake nestled in the rugged volcanic mountains. From any angle it was a feast for the eyes. A wonder in its sheer existence. Sacred for the native Klamath Indians.

I don’t remember if we hiked down to the lake, maybe we did. We boated in the waters. Ash got into everything and came back with us.

But first, very excitedly, we found our spot in the tree rustic camp site and set up our cozy looking tent. It was easy. We spread out the camping cookery items we had bought for the trip on the table. Only, we didn’t have anything to cook with. We forgot about that. So it required a trip to the small camp store. We also bought 2 packs of firewood. What is a camp without a campfire?

Dusk approached. We didn’t realize how fast. Soon, I was cooking in the dark. S was with his favorite activity – the making and maintaining a camp fire. The cute camp lantern we bought the weekend before and with which I walked around in the apartment feeling like a pioneer was dwarfed by the blanket of darkness. I could not see anything that was a few inches away from the lantern!

The cooking failed. The rice wouldn’t cook. The water wouldn’t boil. The veggies wouldn’t saute. I remembered ruefully the tables full of food that neighboring camps had and cleaned up before sunset. One lesson learnt. At least, the fire roared. Until it got very big and one arm came out and burnt S’s eyelash tips.  He was sitting too close, tending the fire. All this didn’t dampen our enthusiasm. Just like the long drive from Portland (which was rather scary close to Crater Lake).

*** 

Maybe some of it was the goodwill karma we felt we were owed (not that karma really works like that). On the long road in the wide open skies from the friendly Portland, we saw a boy, of about 9 years, standing on the shoulder with a handwritten sign Out of Gas. An adult was with a beat-up truck a little ahead. We passed them, and after talking about it we took an exit, a turn into the right direction and parked on the shoulder. They were out of gas. We found the nearest gas station, bought a portable container and brought them gas. They were so grateful, speaking more through their shy country demeanor. I believe we still have the red fuel-safe container somewhere in our garage.

Oh you have to be careful with the dinner remains and how you dispose of the water, one lady said to us at the common taps, with concerned gravity. We must have given her a blank look so she explained- if grizzly bears smell the food they will come to the camp at night.

Grizzly bears will come at night- these words began to sink into me in the darkness. So after we carefully disposed of everything in a bear-safe way, I went back to the tent a little subdued. S took care of the dish washing in the ice cold water.

*** 

So we really didn’t know anything about camping in the wilderness. Going to national parks or camping was not something we grew up with or what our friends did. But it was something that interested us. The internet was there but there was no information in it, like now. The lady was nice, she could have been rude. I’m not sure if the times were like that, people were nicer then, anyway she was nice to us because we didn’t know and also, we were young.

Night settled in. We watched the fire till it died down and settled for sleep. By then all the other camps became quiet. Very soon we realized something was wrong. It was very cold. Extremely cold. We had no idea it could get this cold on a summer night in the mountains here. We had only one sleeping bag, a sheet and two small camp pillows for both of us. No jackets or coats even. We did not doubt not having a warm night.

It was awful. Body shivering, bone chilling cold. Outside, it was so dark; we could not even see our hands. We stumbled to the car, turned it on and with it, the heat. Such sweet comfort it was. Sleep came. Then S said maybe it is not a good idea to stay in one place with the car running so he drove slowly (it hadn’t occurred to us that we might be disturbing the peace). No one complained though.

We left the camp site, drove around, parked here and there and caught bits of sleep. If we turned off the car, the miserable cold rapidly seeped in. Ours was the only car on the road, the car lights were the only lights. We were the only moving creatures on the face of the earth. When we stopped, we turned the lights off, with the engine running for the heat.

One such spot was on a hill top, it was a clearing of some sort, where there was no tree cover. By chance I looked up and… and… was astonished to my core. The Milky Way.

In the moonless, cloudless sky, the Milky Way stretched from horizon to horizon in full splendor. Dazzling, glittering, still and… just there.  

I had only heard of the Milky Way. I had never imagined the magnificence. We both were shocked. We stood outside, heads turned up, forgetting the cold.

It was one of those things where you lose yourself in something. The whole middle of the black sky was lit up. Parts of the arm were dense star-clouds. Each of the countless stars was twinkling. I could have reached out and touched a star.

It was so spectacular, we felt insignificant as ourselves. It was so spectacular, we felt significant because we were a part of it. And to imagine that this sight, this perspective was a given thing in lives of our ancestors, until electricity. Surely without daily darkness we are missing something.

I could have stayed there all night. But I began to imagine grizzly bears behind the starlit distant trees. They will come at night. I got back to the safety of the car despite all entreaties of S. 

*****  

A Whale Watching Trip

(an account of a whale watching trip with our son)

We went on a small boat trip on one weekend early in August. We hoped to see some whales. Word was that unusual numbers of anchovies in the Monterey Bay were attracting unusual numbers of ocean life – from birds to dolphins to whales. To visit, feast and frolic. This in turn was attracting unusual numbers of whale watchers.

There were two parts to deciding to go. One was making peace (again) about watching wildlife from a boat.  Second was if our son, M (11), would be able to handle a long boat trip with an unpredictable agenda. Previously on smaller boat rides he sat quietly in his life-vest, without a smile anywhere and was very relieved when the ride was over. And back when he was a baby, he was confused as to why he couldn’t get into the water and wriggled in my arms, trying to dip his fingers into the water.

But much water has crossed under the bridge since then.

We chose a smallish boat from the small town of Moss Landing (pop. 204). There were 20-25 people waiting at the dock. The boat was late by ½ hour. I put on my sea-sickness band and took one to my son.

He has special needs. He will need some time to put on the band, I said. The young man dispensing the bands agreed amiably. It took a few minutes for the husband and me to convince our son to try it on.

All this time, I felt the presence of a man, a fellow passenger standing behind us, sort of disapproving something about our interactions. He didn’t know that a person can have sensory difficulty to accept something new on his skin.

I often face that. Most likely the man did not know that M has autism. It was not apparent to him (to some it is not apparent and to some, it is). Also, some symptoms tend to fluctuate. 

Earlier, I had shown M pictures from the website of the boat trip and discussed the flow, the expectations. How it will begin and when it will end. What the main purpose was. I asked if he wanted to go. He said he wanted to. However, I could sense some anticipation anxiety in him on our car ride there. 
I had also discussed what to expect during the ride with the owner of the boat, who gave some helpful suggestions. 

****

Then just like that, the time came and we were at the steps to the boat. I went up the steps.

But the idea is different from actual experience. M hesitated. The steps were moving. 

I heard a small no 

It is okay, I explained, from the other side. It moves a little because it is on water. Hold my hand. no...

I quickly looked at the line behind him and his father. The lady next in line kept a small distance and was smiling in understanding. Phew. The boat guide was patient. Phew.

(I had expected this, M's hesitation, when he actually has to get onto the boat. It also happens when we have to board a plane. He needs a few seconds where perhaps he has to accept for himself the change in state)

It’s not that he is saying - No, I don’t want to go. It could be (and most likely is) No, not yet. No, I’m not quite sure I can do this. But he doesn’t have these verbal strings of words at his disposal on the spur.

I waited and offered my hand again. You’ll be fine once you cross over the steps. We’ll sit over there on that bench. Then just like that, M came over.  The three of us settled on a on a bench.

The boat took off even as we were fitting a requisite life vest on him. For a while M was fearful. He held on tightly to his father or to me. A sudden surge in new, raw sensations is so difficult for him. It adds a range of extra unpredictability to a body that processes sensory inputs differently. It took 10-15 minutes for him to get over the fear and give relaxation a chance.

****

Soon we were at the side of the boat, watching the water. Our eyes  glued to the water. It’s just the motion of the boat, I further said. The waves go up and down and so the boat goes up and down. He smiled. If you stand with your feet apart, you’ll be stable. He tried that.
Interesting, how a boy who can spin like a top on a spinning-trapeze and casually come back to a graceful standing position without feeling any dizziness- can find this experience unsettling.

Humpback whales showed up. Moving freely in the waters. They didn’t jump out of the water but were swimming in a relaxed pace. To spot the squirt, then to see the enormous body come out, and then to see the tail roll over – was out of this world. Actually we could tell there was a whale around somewhere by the number of boats waiting in a big circle. It felt like a flexed intrusion into peaceful whale habitat and made me uncomfortable.

I went back to our bench. Is your son feeling sick? A woman sitting next to me slowly asked.

No…

M was standing close to his father, still unsure in his skin and err… a little bundled up (by me). 

After a pause I said- He has autism

She stared back for a few seconds as expression drained from her eyes. She took a breath.  Is he liking the boat?

I think so

It is so good of you both to bring him, she said warmly.

I smiled. I didn’t know what to say. We chatted some more.

She was part of a big connected party which was more than half of the boat. We met civility and understanding from the co-passengers we interacted with. They understood M’s needs and expression and let that go into the background. Also there were no extra challenges thrown up from any side.

The only challenges were that he met by himself- the sound and vibrations of the boat being perceived differently by him, his vestibular and proprioceptive systems making his balancing and regulation different, not having all the tools of communication at his disposal even as newer demands were placed on him, resisting the sensory call of the water, the list goes on. He integrated them and found a way to put them in the background and be with the ride. 
He didn’t feel like typing. Too much was going on and his energies were grouped up in the experience.

****

Lo and behold, the up and down motion started to make me feel nauseous. I had been on boats before and had never felt this. It was awkward. I found our seat while M, now fully adjusted and having un-bundled himself, was freely going about the boat with his father. They sat at the side of the boat with other passengers and watched the whales. He loved the patterns the boat made in the waters.  He wasn’t looking for the boat ride to end.

Some playful dolphins and naughty sea otters came to show off. We saw at least two floating pods of sea lions. Then we saw a spotted whale which apparently has been coming to this bay for years. It has some spots from a collision with a tuna fish boat, 20 years ago. The boat we were on had a driver, and a guide who was giving many details of the types and features of the whales we were seeing but I was drifting in and out.

After what seemed to be a long time I asked, What’s the time? Because of that query I found out that we were on a 4-hr long trip! When I booked, I thought, I was sure, I was booking a 2-hr trip.

I made a mistake. I am careful with these details and yet somehow, I made a mistake. We were now ~3 hours into the trip. I was so relieved that I came to know of this in the last hour. I would have had some panic if I had come to know in the first hour. I didn’t pack lunch, I packed only some snacks and we were well past lunchtime. Then I knew why the baskets of others had so much good looking food!

No wonder it seemed like a long time on the boat. I was tired but M and his father seemed alright. It was a bit cloudy so we weren’t out in the sun and that helped. I noticed that the boat switched gears, rode fast and went up north.

Here the whales surfaced very close to the boat, on both sides. Mums and calves and friends. With them came the inevitable flattened water showing the shape of the whale that dived in. Like a mysterious mirror into another world.  Like fools we kept watching the same spot while the whales surfaced back elsewhere, even if they did. It was as if the boat was surrounded by whales. There weren’t other boats around and it didn’t seem like any intrusion, the whales easily outnumbered the boat and didn’t bother about us. I’m sure there were mostly humpback whales, not that it mattered to me or us. Wherever I looked I could spot a spout, then an inevitable whale or two or three. It was simply unreal.

I zoned out of the voices, the announcements and excitement. Just watched. A magnificent life form in its magnificent home. Such easy joy in its flight. In living. Is this for real? Is this world for real? If it is, the only thing that mattered seemed to be joy, the joy of living. Even now when I close my eyes that’s what I see- I see whales coming out of the vast gray ocean, diving back in and the tail flipping over.

Did he have a good time? A voice asked as we were leaving the boat. She was the lady waiting in line behind us when we were getting in. Another man come forward and offered a earnest hand when M was looking for a foothold on the moving steps (he didn’t seem to need it).

Later back at home in the quiet of our study, M typed a small something, after I suggested the title (in a 2-word poetic form that his teacher had asked him to experiment with over the summer).

****

Note. since this ride, M has been on smaller paddle boats on local lakes a few times and is loving the boating. Each time his adjustment period to the movement of the boat is getting shorter...

One Friday Morning

It was a Friday in January of this year.

It was just any other Friday, except for the weather. There were no rains! It was winter, which is the rainy season here, but it hadn't rained all of December. A drought had been declared in January. Finally there was some rain in late January and we started having a wet ground in the mornings. But it was not just the rains.

The color of the day was different. It had been different all winter. The sunlight had the gold color of fall. It was all a little confusing: fall sun color and warmer weather, within the no-leaves winter. So it wasn't just any other Friday. Even the plants, trees, birds and squirrels in the yard were confused in this golden twilight zone.

****

We spent the early morning outdoors, soaking up the moist air and crispy sunlight, by the dripping tree leaves and puddles on ground. By we, I mean myself and my son. We like the outdoors. There are no expectations from nature. There are no forces urging an interaction of this or that sort to bring about an outcome of convenience. Our interactions stay natural. He can be himself and I can be myself. And be on equal terms.

But the unseen forces acted soon enough and we came inside. Into a lull. Because we had spent more than our usual quota of time outside. You see, homeschooling is tricky like that. It has to flow smoothly or we’ll sink somewhere in the day. I have to manage my energies and his, while being a mommy and a teacher. Bounce from flexibility to discipline to flexibility, even on a low day. And when I can’t get the balance, pause for a bit, analyze, pick-up and move on.  Moreover, special needs homeschooling needs special attention and even more so when the special needs are of autism.

Not surprisingly, M (my son) also reacted to the lull and went off to listen to music, his favorite activity.

I checked- Do you want to study?

No

****

I had some leeway with time: we were doing reasonably well in our school work; we had a teacher’s meeting earlier in the week and even an exam. But what do we do now? Time was a-clicking.  

Maybe I should cook lunch, my mind raced. No, I had already set up my new slow cooker for a soup.  My hope for more efficiency was working out, but I was suddenly facing a vacuum.  

Then I remembered – Math Puzzles! I had always wanted to spend a part of Fridays doing out-of-box activities.

As a smaller child M hadn't been fully interested in games/puzzles, well, in some he was and in some he wasn't.  More recently I tried the Tower of Hanoi and saw he was good he was at it. He also liked it. The puzzle has logic, strategy and sequencing, under the umbrella of math. I was mesmerized how the three qualities came together for him, so easily, when motivated by mathematical constraints of a puzzle.

But which one now? Oh, the coin game!

I had tried a game, which I later learned is called Nim, once before. It has a different kind of complexity than Tower of Hanoi. My husband used to play this coin game with kids who visited us.

I found some coins and arranged them in 3 piles of 7, 5, 3.

Do you want to try a math game?

Yes.

****

We sat next to each other. I quickly explained the rules once again*.

My turn, I’ll start.

Time for his move. M picked, slowly, thoughtfully, hesitantly.

Then, unexpectedly, he brought the coin(s) close to his face. They had an odor?  He had a smile on his face. I waited (I have a strong sense of smell but not like his. Coins are just coins for me. These coins were just quarters). His face had a whimsical look as he held them close to face, my imagination wondering what the smell made him feel, think. We don’t have these words between us. He could type, but it is not fast enough yet. So I waited in silence, watching his face, telling myself to ask him later (more so because this is unusual for him. He usually likes to feel textures- of a leaf, a flower, a pencil, paper, etc.).

It was time for my move.

His move. (Again brought the coins he picked close to his face. So gentle, so light. Whose stories are you feeling and I can’t?)

My move.

Try to win, I reminded. (His drive for winning is very different from mine. He doesn't rush for a win in a game, though he likes to win in an understated way and prefers his hi-5s to be low-key)

He wasn't sure he could win. I played to lose. He won, had the smallest of smile and gave me a look. It was the knowing look of he knew and he knew that I knew*.

We played again, the piles getting familiar, the need to feel the smell getting lesser, the people whose stories the coins carry, getting further. I forget who won.

We moved to another game.

****

There were a couple of moments in there, while we were playing-

1. When the pull from sensations was calling him into a sensory field (this can be from sounds, something visual or of touch or even breeze outside, but for now it was the odor, which was not apparent to me), but he came back to the flow. 2. When taking the coin(s), the pull between going for a comforting, routine move vs. trying a progressive one (there is a strong preference for safety the former, in autism), which he overcame.

In both these moments, his desire to meet with my waiting interactive force under this umbrella of math was what rode him out. As we continued, these moments got mixed in the flow, they did not stand out.

These moments, when they happen, are when I hold my breath. These moments are where he is as much out of autism as I am into autism. Where it doesn't matter who doesn't have autism or who has. And when we are on fully equal terms. These moments make me exhilarated. They fuel me. I live for them.

Exhilarated, and strangely, very calm. Maybe the reaching out into an autism mind is like that. There is quiet order and rest in it.

But the aroma from the slow cooker beckoned me soon enough! And I had to come back to the noise of the concerns of my normal world.

Nim with busy bees

                                                    ****

Notes

*If you don’t know autism, you perhaps wouldn't know we were doing what some say that people with autism, any autism, or maybe certain kinds of autism, can’t do.

Like, follow a self-thought dynamic strategy within a set of higher-order rules held in memory, while enjoying. Quickly comprehend a complex set of directions, casually interact while engaging in reciprocal inferences etc. The person with autism might just show all these differently. What I did was to facilitate the external, including setting-up a system where strengths stretch out while needs are adequately supported, including co-regulation.

** We continue to play the game. Every time we get to a new level but also find new bumps to overcome. Sometimes we do and some other times we rest in the shade of a bump. I find that – somehow, a math game seems to provide a context for some threads to hold out with each other that otherwise don’t prefer to do that, in the order of an autism mind. Then there are other threads and other contexts. I'm always on the lookout for contexts.

It is often the context that builds motivation, for anybody, for doing most things, right? 

***